Steel In The Blood
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Author's Notes: Okay: I realise that in the last chapter, I should have probably explained what mechanika is! It's a fusion of mechanical and magical parts. Magical components provide the power, and mecahnical components provide the direction. Accumulators are effectively magical batteries, which hold a certain number of charges, and can be recharged by channeling spells through them. Conduits are rigged to channel the magical power into runeplates, magically-engraved plates which change the accumulator's power into a spell effect. Steamjacks are the greatest mechanikal constructs there are: sentient constructs twice as tall as a man, powered by steam engines. Workjacks are the labour jacks, and warjacks are (unsurprisingly) equipped to kill, and are controlled in battle by iron-willed sorceror-generals, warcasters. For more info and suchlike, check www(dot)privateerpress(dot)com.
Disclaimer: I don't own D&D, D20, Iron Kingdoms, or any of their associated trademarks. But I do love them to pieces.
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Two
Tempering
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"Mechanik!" A haughty voice echoes through the garage, and the owner of the voice is visible outside the door. Clearly he is not prepared to go inside, as he dusts facetiously at his white suede coat, despite the dust that the late-spring wind is kicking up off the road.
"Yes, yes, I am coming…" Ivdan puts down the wrench he'd been using to tighten the bolts of a farm plough, and walks across to the entrance, wiping his hands on the nearest scrap of cloth he can find. It is making his hands oilier than they were before, but he doesn't particularly care – this man, from his bearing, dress, and accent, is Rynnish.
The man looks him up and down, his eyes dwelling on the oil stains on the mechanik's hands and red overall. Ivdan sticks out his hand, a fake-friendly grin on his face. "Greetings. There is obviously something you want me to do for you…?"
The Rynnish man shudders and reaches out, shaking Ivdan's hand quickly and letting go as fast as he can. "Er, yes, I have an item I wish you to repair."
"And that would be…?"
"This." The Ryn reaches down to the scabbard at his side, and carefully draws the beautiful rapier that hangs there. The mechanik's eyes open wide, for he is not only a man who knows mechanika, he was also once a soldier, and knows weapons almost as well. He carefully places it in the mechanik's hands, and Ivdan gently turns it over, inspecting the shimmer of the blade and the decorations of the hilt.
The close inspection confirms what he thought: it is a blade of quenched serricsteel, the strongest and most expensive metal known in the Kingdoms, and the hilt is of serricsteel, its slightly weaker brother. He slides a hand over the intricate design of the hilt, smiling as he flicks a hidden catch and a compartment opens to reveal a small accumulator nestled in the centre of the weapon.
The Ryn nods down at the hilt, a superior smile on his face. "I wish you to recharge the accumulator… no doubt that will be easy, even for a country mechanik." Ivdan raises an eyebrow at the man's tone, but the Ryn carries on irregardless. "I will pay you ten crowns to have it done by tomorrow."
The mechanik nods. "I can do that." He laughs, slightly mockingly. "My daughter could do that, if I wished her to."
The Ryn raised an eyebrow, "Oh, really? Then let her."
"I was joking… but…" Ivdan grinned, which became malicious as he turned around, out of sight of the Ryn, and yelled, "Kasmira! Come down to the garage!"
"Yes, Father?" A tousled head sticks out from the rooms, and a minute later, Kasmira is scooting down the stairs, holding up the hem of a bright red dress. As she comes over to the two men, both look her up and down, her father with horror (remembering belatedly that there is a Spring Dance at the Town Hall tonight), and the Ryn with a condescending smile.
Ivdan clicks the accumulator out of its socket in the sword, and hands it to his daughter. "Please recharge this, Kasmira." He forestalls her protest that she is in her best dress with a wave of his hand, "It's worth a new dress, Kasya," he adds quickly.
The Ryn is all of a sudden eager to inspect the way this is carried out, and hurries over to the condenser with the two mechaniks. Ivdan briefly excuses himself to finish off the plough, knowing that it is needed soon, and Piotr will be pestering him for it tomorrow.
Kasmira carries out the charging of the accumulator as she has been taught, red and gold swirls of magic powering it up rapidly. She is too absorbed in the magic to notice the Ryn moving gradually closer and closer. Just as she carefully places the sword down, clicking the accumulator cover back into place, an arm slides about her waist. "Excellent… there is what you wanted." The man's free hand drops a pouch to the table, a clink confirming that coins are its contents, and the sword is slid away. "Now, my dear, would you like a little extra in the payment?"
The Ryn has obviously had practise at this, and he backs her up against the bench where the condenser is still humming. "You're a pretty little thing, you know." He leans forward for a kiss, and is intercepted by one of Kasmira's fists. He reels back, nose spurting blood, and his expression incredulous.
Kasmira's face is the very description of fury and embarrassment as she yells at him in a wild mixture of Khadoran and Cygnaran, "How dare you! You're trying to seduce me in my own workshop! You are the most disgraceful excuse for a man I've ever known!"
Ivdan comes steaming around the corner of the workshop in time to see Kasmira land another punch, this one short and strong to the centre of the chest. From his daughter's yells, he quickly realises what has happened, and the Ryn soon finds himself suspended in midair. He is carried over to the garage door, and flung outwards into the dusty street.
"You'll 'ear ob dis! You'll be run oud ob down!" The Ryn stumbles down the road, leaving a trail of blood, but nasty enough to shout back a threat.
Ivdan growls after him, "I do not care, we are leaving soon anyway!" At Kasmira's gasp at this statement, he sighs, and tramps over to the workbench. "Kasya… I cannot continue living in this town. Every street, I have walked down with your mother. Every building, I can picture her in. Every time I sleep in my bed, it is cold and lonely without her."
He picks up a mechanik's wrench, spinning it in random directions. "We are going to leave in a week's time, and we are going to go somewhere. I do not know where. Perhaps we will roam Khador. Perhaps we will go to Cygnar and find your mother's relatives. Perhaps those of our faith, in the Protectorate, will accept us. But we cannot stay here. I cannot stay here."
There is a long silence as Kasmira digests this, then nods. Her sense of adventure had been tingling for a while, but she had been waiting to gain her majority before she left. Her mother's death had erased her plans – she could not leave her father – and also sharpened the desire to leave. To now be offered what she had always wished… "I am… almost the same, Father. I do not wish to remain here much longer, either. Let us go out and see what the world offers…"
Her father grabs her in a bear-hug, grateful tears on his cheeks at his daughter's quick acceptance. "Thank you, Kasya…"
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The Mercenary camp was dirty, disorganised, and overcrowded. But it was home, at least to Kasmira, and at least for now. Mercenaries were always in need of a decent mechanik, and a pair of them was even better. Kasmira pulled her hair back, tying it with a thong, and then bundling it into a rough bun, and tied the now-familiar black scarf around it. She picked up a glob of grease off the nearest warjack's elbow joint, sighing down at the sticky mess. This was her least favourite part of the morning – disguising herself. With another resigned sigh, she slapped it on to her right cheek, feeling it drip down her face and neck, and then smeared the rest across her left temple.
Since they had left their hometown, Kasmira had become ever more careful to conceal any of her appearance. Slouching, binding her breasts, adding smears of grease and oil from her mechanika, making sure nothing was remotely attractive. She'd had a very close call near the Cygnaran border, where a man had managed to drag her off. Fortunately – or perhaps unfortunately – she had had her wrench with her. She had wildly swung at him, hitting him in the head – hard. She had run, thinking she'd killed him, but by the will of some God or Ascendant, he had just been knocked unconscious. She had never told her father, and had since taken to disguising any looks that she had, few enough though they were.
She strolls out to the space where she'd left the warjack she was working on yesterday. She looks down at the gun that hung limply from the big construct's left arm, and sighs, spinning the rotating barrels. They slide smoothly for a second, then halt, jamming. She taps them idly with her wrench, then hits a bit harder. "Come on, you, go!" Clang, clang, click-whrrr… Suddenly the barrels slide smoothly, whirring around easily.
"What the…?" Kasmira taps again, and the barrels whirl around as they are supposed to. "You are not supposed to do that…"
Her father ducks out of the tent, "Kasya? What is the matter?"
"I do not know, Father… somehow the jam cleared up…" Ivdan nods, then leans closer, inspecting the machinery. "Now, let us see what we have here…"
Both mechaniks pause and look up as there is a quick scuffle around one of the tents up the way, shouting breaking out and the mill of punches thrown. Then a pair of men come running down the rough track between the tents, shots pursuing them. One collapses near where Kasmira stands, and lies there, writhing in pain.
A man strides down the alley, hands working quickly to reload the pistol in his hands. He lifts it, braces, and sends a shot after the other man, who is still running. There is a sickening crack, even from the distance, and he falls in a small, crumpled heap.
The pursuer stops where the other man lies, twisted with pain. He lifts his right arm, a quietly clicking piece of mechanika, and a small blade slides out from behind one of the armour plates with a quiet skissh. "Ya think you can cross me, ya bastard? Ya think that Magnus the Traitor is to be messed with?"
He kicks at the man on the ground, rolling him over. The man ceases to whimper, looking up at the grim, scarred face above him. "N-no… didn't mean to… please…" His voice fades, knowing before he even asks that it is futile. "…mercy…?"
"Ya know I don't give that." Magnus' voice is pure ice and steel, and he reaches down, the mechanikal arm lifting the victim effortlessly. The tiny knife is lifted and flicks across the man's neck. Blood gushes briefly across the steel plating of Magnus' arm, then slows to a mere trickle.
The mercenary leader drops the body, then turns around. Kasmira's face, white with shock, catches his eye, and he steps over to where she stands, thrusting out the mechanikal arm. "Clean it. I don't want it rusting."
Kasmira stares down at the blood-covered steel, then backs away, turning and running behind the tent to lose her breakfast in a sticky heap.
Ivdan steps in, picking up a cleaning cloth. Though his face is slightly pale under his tan, he has seen death before him before, unlike his daughter. "Sir, my daughter has never seen death so close before. Let me do this."
Magnus nods, looking to where the girl disappeared. "She'll learn."
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Ivdan looks around the corner of the tent, seeing Kasmira still bent over. "Kasya?" The girl looks up, tears streaking the concealing grease on her face.
"So much blood!" is all she can gasp, then another flood of tears flows over as the horror of the scene replays itself again, the sheer cold indifference on Magnus' face as he slid the knife across his victim's throat. "Didn't know someone… could be so cold… so unfeeling… killed him so easily…" she collapses into another rain of tears. In all her eighteen years, she has never seen something so horrible.
"Kasya, there are many men in the world like him. Far too many. And I should not have stayed here so long. It was good money, but money is not worth the soul." Ivdan's voice is certain, for he has been thinking this for a while. If he were to die, or be incapacitated, Kasmira would be on her own, in a mercenary camp. And only Menoth would know what would befall her if left there. "We will go to Corvis, and you will see your grandparents. If they take you in, then that will be the best we can hope for. If not… then we will find you a good place."
The teenager can only sob, nestled in the only place she has felt safe for a long while, once more a place where she is justified in trusting.
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Sorry about the long wait! Got caught up in the little thing called 'real life'!